


I built a ship to carry my home

by AwayLaughing



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, First Age, Sailing To Valinor, Slice of Life, The Valar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28284612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: Tuor sets off on the final, but in some ways least daunting journey of his life.
Relationships: Idril Celebrindal/Tuor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	I built a ship to carry my home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vinyatar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyatar/gifts).



Tuor pulled his son in for one last hug, relishing the familiar warmth, the salty smell of the air mixed with that which was Eärendil alone. Eärendil squeezed him back, before pulling away, smiling softly.

“We will see one another again, ada,” he said. “As ever.”

“I know, but I’ve always hugged you before parting,” Tuor said, “this one is no different.”

Eärendil laughed, smile brighter than the sky on this rather cloudy day. Tuor was too much the consummate traveller to think it an ill omen, but it did strike him as somewhat appropriate. The way forward was after all anything but clear. A plan built on skills and a shadow of a hope.

And yet, he found fear a hard thing to embrace. Instead, it was a strange sort of thrill.

For so long he had wandered alone, chasing a nebulous goal.

Now he was travelling, properly, with the love of his life and he knew exactly what he wanted.

Pulling away, he cast one last glance after those who had assembled to say farewell, bestowing them a smile he felt deep within him. Indeed, rather than rising he felt the strange anxiety that had plagued him recently - like the tide pulling at his bones - receding. Had felt it do so with every step they made towards leaving.

“Farewell, my friends, may we meet on distance shores under familiar stars.”

The chorus that responded was a bit ragged, but the sentiment stood – let those stars guide you. Even Voronwë was smiling as Tuor and Idril joined him on the boat.

“This is madness,” he said, and Tuor laughed, clapping his dear friend’s shoulder.

“There is no one else aside from you,” he looked too to Idril, “I would delve into madness of this depth with.”

“Too right,” Voronwë said. “Lady Idril, will you do us the honour of tying off?”

“Of course,” Idril said. She made quick work of the knot, and the three of them worked in some silence for a small amount of time, pushing out of the harbour and into the winds of the more open ocean. Once that was done, they turned, connected by a tangle of arms, and looked to the shore. “Farewell, dearest Endore,” she said, voice soft and distant, “never again will we three lay eyes on your splendours, or your pains.”

A shiver went through the air at her words. Wordlessly, Tuor leaned over, pressing a kiss to her fair temple.

* * *

The summer seas were as placid as expected – too placid maybe. There was no fear of starving, and Idril had perfected the talent of singing drinking water from the ocean some week into their journey, purely out of something to do, rather than need.

Today was a warm day, which was pleasant at first but as Arien grew to her zenith, was quite toasty indeed, without any friendly trees to offer shade. It left the three sailors sitting around, keeping to the shade and trying their best not to let tempers rise with the temperature.

“I tire of kelp and fish and lembas,” Voronwë said, laying down as best he could on their sloop. “Do the Valar think to leave us to die of boredom then?”

“It’s preferable to deadly storms, no?” Idril, tone a bit tighter than one might expect, said. Voronwë sighed in a manner that could be anything – from disagreement to its opposite to opinionated capitulation. This did nothing to smooth Idril’s ruffled feathers.

Tuor continued to pretend he was dosing. The upside to human dotage. Everyone was forever thinking he needed a nap, lest he exert himself too much.

Luckily, no one felt the need to take the exchange and stretch it into an argument. Instead, Voronwë went back to inspecting their spare canvas – in case anything happened to the sails – and Idril went back to pretending she was fixing a net.

The sun above grew warmer.

“I would not lose you to a storm,” Voronwë said. Though his voice was quiet it had the effect of sudden thunder on a still night. Tuor jerked, realizing only now he’d somehow slipped into a doze without meaning too.

“Nor us, you,” Tuor said, peeling one eye open.

“Valar see fit to keep it that way,” Idril said, reaching forward to pat Voronwë’s knee. “Come, let us copy my husband and use the warmth a reason to make as cats would.”

“Sensible creatures, cats,” Tuor said. “We should have brought one.”

“Fearful of rats, Tuor?” Voronwë asked.

“Not at all, but if nothing else we could send it chasing after something for a bit of interest.”

* * *

The rains and winds came, though not without warning. The three sailors huddled together, Tuor between Voronwë and Idril. More than once, they had been forced to spring into action when particularly clever winds managed to undo some lashing. Tuor had stayed where he was ; ostensibly in charge of steering.

In truth, protected, as if he were infirm. He was only mostly grey yet.

Though it would he thought make more sense for him to corral the storm jib, and someone with the very excellent eyesight to be in charge. He could hardly complain though – the storm would just snatch the words away. So instead, he fought to keep to the spaces between the waves. When that was impossible, he did everything under his power to avoid bringing the beam to breaker.

So far, he was doing well.

Idril finally managed to catch the whipping rope, and she made quick work of tying the jib back down. As gracefully as one could in roaring winds and whipping rains, she dropped back to the deck, and together she and Voronwë joined him back at the helm.

“I know you just did all that work, but I’m wondering if we ought not heave-to?” Tuor asked once they were close enough. The two elves shared a look.

“I suppose we can try,” Idril said, running a hand over her face to briefly divert the rain.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Voronwë said, “I cannot help but feel as if we’re being pushed away from something.”

Tuor nodded – the winds had started from the south, but switched rather atypically east once they’d pushed on far enough. Idril, looking around, nodded too, face more far away, arms wrapped around herself for warmth. He leaned over, nudging her.

“Go below decks, get dry,” he said. She wrinkled her nose, but did not argue.

She, like many elves he knew, detested being cold for all it was less hazardous to them.

Not forced to fight the wind for it, Voronwë had much greater luck repositioning the jib. It still took a few minutes to find the exact right angle to sit at – but after a few too-loud heartbeats, they joined Idril below decks, sure they were unlikely to move overmuch through the night.

Without a word, they joined Idril below deck, shedding clothes almost the moment they were out of the wind. For warmth, they curled up together with Idril, who clung to Tuor, strong fingers tangled in his extra tunic.

Everything they owned smelled of salt these days, but on Idril it still smelt of home.

“We’re almost there,” she said into his chest. “Wherever we are going.”

“Wherever you are, I am home,” Tuor assured her. Then he reached over to pat Voronwë, lest he feel left out. Voronwë caught his hand, squeezing their knotted fingers together for a minute, and then letting go.

Sleep did not come easily, but come it did.

* * *

Idril woke first, or rather, was the first of them to realize the creaking above them was not the natural creaks of a ship. Unarmed – they thought it best to come with open hands and hearts, given the state of things, the three made their way above, Tuor stubbornly refusing to let either of the other two lead.

Easing his head out, he looked around, trying to be sneaky but needn’t have bothered. Almost immediately an unfamiliar elf crouched in front of him. Facing west as they were, his face was alight with morning sun, revealing tanned skin, hair as white and curly as sea foam, and eyes as dark as deepest ocean.

“Ho friends,” the elf said. Something about his voice struck Tuor as familiar – but this was not any face he knew, not even one that belonged to a walker of the short path. “I saw you sitting here and thought I best check everyone was alright.”

“Our thanks, in that case,” Tuor said, easing out so that Idril and Voronwë could join them. Immediately Idril caught his hand, their fingers entwining in a long familiar pattern.

“No need, only the polite thing to do,” the elf said with a wide grin, “you get caught in the storm last night, then?”

“Yes,” Voronwë, a stiff warmth at Tuor’s elbow said. “What is your name, friend?”

“Ëaron,” the elf said, “yourselves?”

Tuor’s heart skipped a beat. Quenya.

“I am Voronwë,” his friend said, “this is Itarillë, and her husband Tuor.”

“Well met,” Ëaron said. Tuor was too busy being thankful Voronwë had chosen to be circumspect than he was curious about Ëaron’s easy acceptance. “I suppose you must have got turned around last night – you’re a bit off course for the harbour. Just follow the island coast south and you’ll find your way back.”

‘Island?’ Tuor almost said, but he turned, looking down the prow and nearly collapsed onto the deck.

Land, in clear view sight.

“You’re better than a compass, friend Ëaron,” Idril said, curtsying. Ëaron bowed back with a chuckle.

“It’s only the neighbourly thing to do, is it not?”

They murmured their agreements, and with another bow, Ëaron excused himself. It took him no work at all to unmoor his boat, tied only loosely as it was to their starboard side. Silently they watched him row away, no one speaking until he disappeared around some jutting rocks.

“How odd,” Idril said finally.

“Odd? He didn’t so much as look twice at Tuor,” Voronwë said.

“Maybe I look elven enough to those who’ve never seen a human?”

Voronwë and Idril looked back dubiously, and Tuor self consciously scratched at the beard he’d allowed to form. It was rather more silver than blond these days.

“Shall I go shave then?” he asked, as if that would help at all.

“Only if you want to,” Idril said. In truth, he’d only ever had a beard when travelling, and even then, when he could shave he did. He couldn’t say if his dislike of beards was simple unavoidable preference, or because he had lived so much of his life with smooth faced eldar. Either way, he headed below deck.

* * *

Ëaron proved to be an exception to the rule. They’d drawn a crowd when they docked in Alqualondë, people easily spotting an unfamiliar ship manned by an unfamiliar face. Tuor stayed to the back as best he could as they made their way, escorted, to the palace. Idril walked beside him, her arm looped through his.

They were greeted by a man who bore a passing resemblance to Círdan – found only because Tuor spent the whole walk up to him looking for it. The king, based on his plain silver crown, only visible because of how it glinted in the morning light. Next to him, his queen was nearly as beautiful as Idril, her hair even paler than her silver band. They shared a similar calm kindness – a look in the eyes, he thought.

“Greetings, Itarillë Turukániel,” the king said. “Forgive me, your companions I do not know.”

Idril – hearing her Quenya name was strange, especially so since it was the second time this day – let go of him to step forward, curtsying deeply. Voronwë and himself both bowed even deeper, a fraction of a second behind. When he looked up, the queen was staring at him, bright shoal-green eyes thoughtful, and perhaps a bit distrusting.

“Your highness,” she said, “allow me to introduce. Tuor, son of Huor of the house of Hador and Lord of the House of the White Wing, and Voronwë Aranwion, of follower of the house of Fingolfin and member of the House of the White Wing.”

Their escort had disappeared after their delivery, and it was Olwë and Naltanén who lead them inside. They went not to a throne room or anything of the sort, but, rather like how it was in Sirion, to a dinning room.

Tuor fought a smile at that, wondering at the similarities between long sundered kin.

“You have had a long and dangerous journey,” the queen said. “And it is not at its end, but we will see you fed before you must continue to Rithil-Anamo.”

“Have we been summoned already?” Idril asked, the ominous name apparently meaning something to her.

The king and queen’s expressions were matching; thoroughly serious. “They will,” the king said simply.

* * *

They met their summons on the road, just as they passed Tirion, and per said summons, they found themselves in a round room at dawn, three days after their arrival in Aman. Around them, seated in high backed thrones the Valar.

“You have broken the ban, and returned to Aman without leave of the Valar, Idril Turgoniel,” Manwë said, tone more neutral than his words. “And beyond that, you have brought a mortal into the undying lands.”

“I brought my husband, to whom I am sworn to never part willingly,” Idril said, tone cool. “You can accuse the Noldor of many crimes, Lord Manwë, but say not that we abandon our oaths lightly.”

“Indeed, you cleave to them rather more tightly than we might hope,” lord Ulmo said, a smile playing on his lips. “And I must rebut your first statement brother.”

“Oh?” Manwë raised an eyebrown in a frankly very mortal expression of unsurprised dubiousness.

“Yes. Lady Itarillë did not break the ban. I let them in.”

There was a pause – Tuor got the sense the conversation was now happening in a manner he could not hear. Lord Ulmo seemed unconcerned at least, and when he turned, Tuor realized his ocean-black eyes were sparkling in a very familiar way.

“I knew I knew that voice,” Tuor said, pulling the Valar’s considerable attention back to him.

“I should hope so, I’ve spoken to you often enough,” lord Ulmo said, grinning.

“Lord Ulmo appears to be utterly unrepentant,” Voronwë said, leaning over to Tuor as Ulmo was pulled back into the conversation by a hopefully not as irate as he looked Mandos.

“Have you ever known the ocean to ask permission or apologize?” Idril asked pointedly.

* * *

Tuor woke gently, stretching in the sunlight, enjoying the warm sand at his back. Around him the ocean lapped languidly at the shore, and he could feel Idril next to him. Turning, he found she’d tucked herself against him despite clearly being fully awake.

She smiled up at him as he turned over, and he looked only briefly for Voronwë, unsurprised to see him net fishing.

Their pseudo-exile to Tol Eressëa – mostly inhabited by Reborn, and most of them Nandor. They were by no means unfriendly, but they had very little interest in Noldor and humans.

“I was thinking,” Idril said, “we should build a house.”

“Here?” he asked, and she shook he head, pointing to a hill that slopped northward.

“On the other side of that hill. There’s a harbour, so we can make a dock.”

“For when we build a boat, lest Voronwë repeat the mistake of trying to steal one from Alqualondë?”

“Oh don’t jest about that!” Idril said, though laughter edged her voice. “And no – well yes. But mostly so there’s a place for the others to come. We can feed them without all of Alqualondë gawking.”

“You think others will come?” he asked.

“I know they will,” she said, “we just need to talk the Valar into being reasonable.”

“Well,” Tuor said, “a good thing we have several centuries then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I was inspired by a piece you had of Idril and Tuor sailing - there was a caption about being bored of fish and I just sort of ran with it. I hope you enjoy this, and have had a good holiday season so far! If it's been hard, then I hope this is enough to at least make you a little happier.


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